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The worst thing about Spellman--besides her stupid soft eyes, besides her ridiculous jokes, besides her awkward fumbling both in and out of the Avatar--is that she's very, very well versed in Na'vi anatomy. Which means she knows the ins and outs of their musculature, the exact locations of their sit spots, all the parts that take the most pain.
Which means she knows the absolute perfect angle from which to rain down a tangle of blows that feels like fucking fire . A hot blue cascade across Mila's ass and thighs, searing straight through her skin and into her core, a wave of raw feeling far worse than simple pain.
"Bitch!" She's thrashing, kicking her legs from where she's slung over Spellman's knee like a goddamn toddler (and fuck, she doesn't even want to think about she'd look to anyone who walked in on them, to Spider, fucking hell).
"Let me go," she spits, thrashing and wriggling without much luck. Spellman's got her pinned far too well, binding Mila's hands behind her back with her own fucking tail, and even if she did get free she's off balance to enough to probably just roll across the ground, helpless, until Spellman deigned to grab her again. "Let me go or I swear to fuck--"
"Manners." Spellman lands another vicious smack, striking right at the base of Mila's tail. "I thought you were a proper southern belle?"
"A proper southern belle who can rip your fucking tits off--" She's cut off with a yelp as more smacks cascade across her sensitive thighs and back up again, striking the quivering meat of her ass so hard Mila can feel her breasts jiggling with the shockwave. "Ah! Fuck! Fucking stop it!"
Spellman hums to herself thoughtful. "You ready to start counting, Colonel? I'm fine to keep on with the warmup if you need it that much."
A fucking warmup-- fuck. Mila lets out a long, slow hiss through her nose. The stuck-up, self-righteous...
"One," she grits out forlornly. Spellman clucks soothingly and rubs a soft hand across Mila's ass, fingers brushing oh so gently over Mila's heating, aching skin. Then she pulls her palm away, only to bring it back down with a resounding smack.
"Two." Smack. "Three." Smack! "F-four." Smack-smack-smack. "Five-six-shit, seven!"
The punishment drags on, Mila's voice growing shakier and shakier, pushed to the brink, a fucking mockery of the woman in the recording she barely remembers at this point. When it breaks at thirty, shatters clean away, he isn't even surprised.
Spellman lets her hang there for a minute, panting, gently rubbing and patting at Mila's ass and thighs. She reaches somewhere, comes back with an opened bottle of water, and Mila grudgingly manages to get down a few sips. Spellman pats her on the head like she's a good girl, good dog, and Mila doesn't even have the strength to growl.
Then Spellman shoves her legs apart.
"Motherfucker--" But they both know Spellman can already see Mila's cunt, hot and pink and vulnerable and wet, unmistakable as her swelling cock. The smell of arousal fills the air--fuck, Spellman probably sniffed it out beforehand, bitch knows aaaall about how to pick out the scents of desperate little Na'vi, doesn't she?
"Deep breath," Spellman orders. And Mila does as she's told (like a fucking bitch) right before the heel of Spellman's hand thwacks against her pussy.
She blames the sound she makes on how much air she had in her lungs, just that and nothing else. The thought isn't much comfort in the face of the pain splitting out from her cunt, though, or the earsplitting way her scream cuts through the air. The gap in its wake leaves her heaving for air, flush and shaking and so fucking turned on.
"Come on, now." Spellman's voice is soft, patient--she's being nice, Mila knows. So fucking nice, because if their positions were reversed she would have made the other woman start all over again...oh, if their positions were reversed.
The thought gives her the strength to croak out a "Thirty-one" and she tries to ignore the warm sense of pride when Spellman hums in approval. It twists in her stomach anyway, fresh kindling for the sickening flames of arousal.
Blow thirty-second doesn't help things, or thirty-three, or thirty- fourth. By thirty-eight she can't see from the sweat in her eyes, and her voice is raw, screams she doesn't have to try giving herself excuses anymore.
On the thirty-ninth blow Spellman's fingers catch her cock, and the world white out for a heartbeat, a ragged shriek spilling out of her like a wound, and she stutters three times before forcing out the number. It's apparently enough to give the crazy bitch pause, hands resting gently on Mila's hip.
"One more," she murmurs, voice soft as a kiss. "You're doing such a good job, Colonel." The use of that title feels like the worst insult of all.
"Fuck...you...." Mila's trying for a growl, but it feels like more of a question, a plea.
She's not really surprised when something in her spasms at the fortieth blow, stinging and filthy and bright, like she's coming goddamn lightning. Nails sinking into her palms, thrashing helplessly in its knot, feet drumming against the ground, she howls.
And when she lies there, dripping, panting, head spinning, she doesn't forget her orders: "For...forty."
"Good girl." The condescension makes her want to scream, but out of fury or pleasure Mila doesn't dare wonder. So she just lies there, feeling Spellman's experienced hands soothing her like a skittish direhorse or pa'li or whatever the fuck, undoing the knot in her tail, rubbing cream deep into Mila's aching skin until the pain is at least bearable.
Then Spellman takes her by the hips and settles her down on her knees, on the ground, one finger tilting up Mila's chin. She blinks up, confused, at least until Spellman briskly rolls her own pants down her legs and spreads them wide, showing off what looks like miles of bare skin, soaking pink heat. And the smell...
Well. It's not like Mila really thought she was the only one enjoying their little get-together, was she.
"No biting," Spellman says, smiling down at her. To her surprise, Mila finds herself offering a little smile back. She can be a good girl, for now.